


dime lo en español

by hupsoonheng



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, New York City, spanglish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-15 13:32:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1306669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hupsoonheng/pseuds/hupsoonheng
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>you know how some of us speak spanish and some of us don't but either way you're getting a call from your grandma asking why your spanish isn't as good as it used to be</p><p>tiny not-exactly-a-sequel to stop me if you think you've heard this one before</p>
            </blockquote>





	dime lo en español

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't been writing because of how stressful moving has been (yet again) and how it's impacted my shitty hours at work to make them even shittier but this is an effort to start again so i can work through some commissions, sort of like a warmup sketch

The door to Karkat’s apartment swings wide, blasting you with stale cold air, and you couldn’t be gladder. The hallways of the building feel cool in comparison to the street, but that’s only because outside it’s fucking blazing into the hundreds. Karkat’s dad sprang for the nice air conditioner, which you’re so grateful for. 

Karkat tries not to look hurt when you reject his hug, which is only because of the sweat rolling down your sides and creating a veritable swamp inside your binder, so you bounce up to land a kiss on his cheek. “I’m just so disgusting right now, like, let me cool off first,” you say as you walk right out of your barely laced kicks, because tying them too tight in this weather is like standing in ovens but you’re not corny enough to wear fucking slides like every other Dominican on your block. And you’d like to think of yourself as too good for cheapo flip flops. 

You’d also like to think that you and Karkat are past certain boundaries, so in the absence of any of Karkat’s relatives you take your shirt off to lay it on the couch, then strip off your binder. (Admittedly, you still face your chest toward the wall, away from your boyfriend, because you’re not on good terms with these _things_ attached to you today.) You’re shameless in using your own t-shirt to dry the sweat from under your breasts, before slipping it back on; it’s not like it wasn’t sweaty before, whatever. Your binder gets stuffed into your bookbag, and now you’re sort of ready to deal with the day. It’ll definitely go back on before you leave, though. 

For the both of you, it feels like your last summer of freedom. College looms large on the September horizon, but here in early July you still feel kind of safe from it. There’s barely been a day gone by you haven’t spent together, almost all of it indoors to escape the heavy heat. 

And maybe, just a little bit, because you have a hard time walking along that one half of your block. Possibly, just maybe, because nobody knows what happened on that one half of your block but you, and also Karkat sort of, so nobody’s gone anywhere, and while nobody fucks with you anymore, either, you’re just not down for busting open the fire hydrant in chanclas the way you used to be. 

But it’s not something you like to dwell on. You’re in Queens now, far away from all of that, and you’re following Karkat into his bedroom, which has its own little air conditioner that means you’ll be able to close the door. Again, not that anyone’s home, but being a teenager has taught you that privacy is never guaranteed. 

He lets you plug in your phone to his speakers, because he’s also letting you choose the music, and you choose _Mi Nena_ to start, because why not take advantage of being alone while you can? It’s slow but still with a beat, kind of romantic you think without being full on cornball. You gay it up as you climb up onto his kind of tall bed, replace every instance of _nena_ with _nene_ even when it breaks the rhyming scheme. Karkat laughs. 

“What’s so funny?” you ask, kind of idly as you play with his belt buckle. 

He puts a hand over both of yours to still them. “I thought you said you didn’t speak Spanish,” he says. You try to flip your hands up to tickle his palm and he strengthens his grasp. 

“Nah, like, not really? I just like reggaetoneros. And like, a little bit of bachata, when I’m feeling cheesy.” You flex your wrists. You could actually get out of this pretty easily, but you’re not in the business of hurting the most important person in your world. 

“So you learn all these Don Omar lines and you don’t learn any Spanish at all?” He shifts back and holds your hands with both of his, snorting at you. 

“I mean, I can understand Spanish just fine,” you say with a shrug. 

“¿Me entiendes cuando te hablo en español?” he asks, which catches you off guard. You don’t mean to pull a face, especially not one that involves opening your mouth to respond—and having nothing. “¿Me entiendes ahora?” 

“I mean, yeah, sure. But like, this is New York, who wouldn’t understand that?” you say with an exaggerated shrug. 

“Dime lo en español.” He flips your palms up like he’s going to read them. Any erotic thoughts you had in your head are melting out of your ears, and this song you wanted to kiss him to is winding down. 

“I can’t, dude, come on. I’m like, I’m black before I’m Dominican, you know? Rose too, I think, even if she knows some Spanish.” You keep your hands in his as you sit back. 

“Pero tu hermano, ¿no les cocina pernil y todo lo demás de comida caribeña?” Fuck this dude, his diction is practically flawless. Doesn’t he speak English with his dad? And you _know_ Kankri speaks only marginally better than you do. “Eso sí se oye Dominicano a mí.” 

“That’s just food, babe.” You sigh. “Speak English again, this shit is making me feel inadequate.” 

“Inadequate why?” Karkat asks, and you think the switch has less to do with your request and more with that being a fucking big word, and the concern you see reflected in his brow and suddenly bitten lip. “I just thought all this time you actually spoke Spanish because half the music you listen to... is in Spanish.” 

“Yeah, well, weebs listen to a fuckton of music in Japanese, doesn’t mean they’re about to teleport to Tokyo and strike up a conversation about the state of the Japanese government or whatever other high-minded shit.” He pulls you back toward him gently even as you make the decision to crawl back toward him. No funny business, just taking advantage of the chilled air in here to stay close. 

“Weebs aren’t Japanese, that’s the difference.” You really like lying with him like this but you sure wish there was a button on him you could press to change the subject. Or well, you could think of at least a few places that might serve as that button, but you’re not about to go pressing without permission. “And you said you could understand Spanish, which again, weebs and Japanese, not a thing that really happens. Only like, the really dedicated pieces of shit who really believe in their dream to become a mangaka with some racist idea of a Japanese girlfriend.” 

“Man, stop grilling me about this!” you groan, pushing your face into his chest, which muffles your next words. “I can’t just like Tego Calderón without having like a big cultural discussion about it? So what if I don’t know Spanish? You do, so you can translate my shit-talk when I catch people talking smash about me, in whatever hypothetical situation.” 

“Heritage is important!” he says, and you look up just to glare at him. “I’m not saying like, whichever side of your family doesn’t speak Spanish isn’t important, but I’m saying both sides are important! Especially for us!” 

“Just, look, Karkat,” you sigh. “I missed the window for this shit, alright? I’m not one of those desperate tryhards in my neighborhood who only use their Spanish to talk shit about each other, and I’m not one of those kids whose parents spoke Spanish at home, like _obviously_ I came into kindergarten speaking English.” 

For once he’s got nothing to say, at least not to that, and Karkat just kind of glances at the wall while you drum on his collarbone. 

“But look,” you say at last, “if you wanna speak Spanish to me, it’s not like I’m not gonna understand unless you break out the five dollar words, so like. You know. Go ahead.” 

“¿Estás seguro?” he asks. Damn, it didn’t even take him a second to switch over. 

“Yeah, I’m sure. I wanna hear you sweet-talk me en español,” you say with a grin, which he returns. “Uh, dime lo en español. Yeah.” Your accent doesn’t really sound natural but at least you don’t sound like a total gringo. 

“Pues claro, mi amor,” he says with this almost embarrassed little laugh, and it’s cheesier than anything he’s ever said to you in English. “Pon le un poco de bachata, si lo tienes.” 

“Not... really, I keep that corny shit at home,” you say as you disengage and slide off to go change the music, “but I’ve got some music that’s not far off.” That’s sort of a lie, but you get a sense of what mood he wants to set here, and you put on La Jirafa before practically jumping back onto the bed. “That’s fine, right?” 

“Eso sí.” His hands glide up and down your back. You could fall asleep like this. 

In fact, the both of you kind of pass out, between the quiet music and the hum of the air conditioner and the comfort of each other’s bodies. You wake up with kind of a start, not sure of when you fell asleep, but a quick check of Karkat’s phone tells you it’s only been like, two hours max. You blow a raspberry on Karkat’s face to wake him up. 

“Fuck, I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” he grumbles as you both sit up. He checks his phone, too, as he wipes your spit off his face and onto your shirt; it’s after twelve. “You wanna get lunch?” 

“Yeah, but,” you pause for the windup, “dime lo en español.” And he groans.


End file.
